Tears
by megpie
Summary: Boromir must wrestle with his decisions as well as with his own mortality.


**Disclaimer:  No, I am not JRR Tolkien resurrected (though that would be really cool), therefore I don't own the characters mentioned here.  For the first time ever, I'm not putting words into these character's mouths, just thoughts into their heads (which, you must admit, is a step up.  ;) ), meaning that when Boromir and Aragorn speak, it's actually from the book.  **

**A/N: Oh, I'm sure this has been done before - Boromir's death scene - but it's just calling out for elaboration!  There's a whole time period after Merry and Pippin are taken and before Aragorn shows up that Boromir just lies there alone, unaccounted for in the books.  That's just not right!  So, I decided to fix it as best I can.  **

                Boromir, son of Denethor, heir to the stewardship of Gondor, lay bleeding to death in the forests of nowhere.  As he slumped there, his life pouring out of his wounds slowly, the only thing that kept him company were old nightmares.

            "You are not yoursef," Frodo had told him hours before (had it been only a few hours?  It felt like days ago) when he had attempted to take the Ring.

            And there, there the Halfing had been wrong.  He had been _more himself at that moment.  The power of the Ring whispering all that he could accomplish with its help: the glory of defeating Mordor, the pride restored to his fallen Gondor under his rule; __that was what should be.  __That was supposed to be his future – the future of all.  _

            A stabbing pain brought him back to the forest and the arrows pinning him to his tree.  His fingers brushed against the Horn of Gondor, cloven in two at his side.  Perhaps the Horn was a sign.  His was the price to pay for trying to wield the Ring.  The future of this world was certainly not his.  And at that, anger filled him.  Why shouldn't it be?  Why couldn't his future be a part of Middle-earth's?  Why should a Halfling have the fate to hold more power then he, the eldest son of Denethor?

            The thought of the Halflings brought him only more anger.  What had they done while he was being shot?  Nothing but stand there.

            Pippin's eyes had had that unfocused and glazed look that Boromir had recognized from the young ones in Gondor who observed the horror of war for the first time; a gaping that conveyed the shock and disbelief that must have frozen the hobbit to his spot.  The look that Merry gave him was no different.  As statues, the two could have been more helpful.

            'Move, you useless things!' Boromir had wanted to shout, the pain burning cold in his chest.  They were no strangers to death!  Gandalf had fallen not weeks ago.  But then, Gandalf's death had not been the bloody, messy thing Boromir's played out to be.  No, he could not condemn the two gentle hobbits for their actions. In fact, his heart went out to the two, so far away from the Company, now, and in the clutches of the orcs.  There was little he could do for them – he hadn't been able to save them any more than he had been able to save Gandalf.

            Gandalf!  The old wizard had been right; no one could use the power of the ring without falling – either to darkness or death.  Yes, the old wizard had been right all along.  What Boromir would give to have had him at Amon Hen.  Gandalf's death had affected them all in the end.  Oh, how they all had mourned it on those rocks by the Mines, the threatening drum beats having faded away into nothing.  

            Would anyone mourn his death?  Other than his father mourning the loss of his heir, would anyone actually weep when he was gone?  He wondered how the world would remember Boromir, son of Denethor.  Would there even be a tear spilt over him?  Perhaps Frodo had been right…

            Boromir closed his eyes sleepily only to reopen them when he heard someone kneel beside him.  Using much of his remaining strength, he tilted his head to find Aragorn there.  There was a silence between the two, eyes locked on one another.

            "I tried to take the Ring from Frodo," Boromir managed after awhile.  This confession free, he felt much lighter.  "I am sorry.  I have paid."  The world seemed to be narrowing in on Aragorn; everything else was being erased by an impenetrable black.  Merry…Pippin…the black stopped its relentless pursuit at the thought.  The two hobbits had to be saved.  "They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have them.  I think they are not dead.  Orcs bound them."  He somehow grasped onto whatever failing life was still in him.  Painfully, he spoke again.  "Farewell, Aragorn!  Go to Minas Tirith and save my people!  I have failed."  Even Aragorn was getting dimmer now, the light fading from his short and seemingly useless time upon the world.  He had made no lasting impact on the people or the place.

            "No!"  Aragorn cried.  "You have conquered.  Few have gained such a victory.  Be at peace!  Minas Tirith shall not fall."  The world grew very sharp for a brief second as Aragorn leaned forward and kissed his forehead.  His eyes focused on a single tear as it fell down Aragorn's face and splashed on Boromir's cheek as if to prove it was not merely an illusion.

            Boromir smiled.


End file.
